After the Turks were gone it would be upon these ruins we would build. Equally elegant modern architecture would rival the old. The sky would fill with the shimmering wings of silent aircraft. Bearing the polished steel of gently murmuring motor-vehicles, silvery overhead roads would curve and sweep between spires and domes no longer mosques but churches dedicated to our own, Greek Christ. Here exemplary human aspiration and dignity would expand. Constantinople would be a synonym for enlightened moderation. Before the benevolent power of electricity, steam and oil poverty would vanish. To her courts would come Arab spice-sellers, Christian tycoons, great poets, engineers, musicians. All would live in marvellous harmony, each knowing his place in the scheme of things. And ruling our Emperor City, if my dreams were to be fully realised, would be a noble, tolerant, far-sighted Tsar. A Tsar of a united world: a Tsar with the joyous vision of a positive Future. In his justice and wisdom he would reign justly over all men. This wonderful place, half-metropolis, half-garden, would exist in eternal summer. By science her light and temperature would be controlled beneath a glowing, transparent dome radiating the rainbow colours of the sun; a dome as beautiful as the dome of Hagia Sophia herself. That great Cathedral, symbol of our endurance and our Faith, would continue to dominate the city’s seven hills. All religions would be tolerated, but the Christian religion would flourish supreme, exemplified by our Greek liturgy. This creation of a better world on Earth would be a sign of the world to come. She would serve as a model to which other cities and cultures might aspire. Finally, thanks to the construction of enormously powerful machinery below the foundations, she might herself ascend one day to the heavens.
At first I tried to explain these visions to my companions, but they were inarticulate, even in their native tongues, and their schooling non-existent. Sometimes I felt more like a village schoolmaster than a rakehell. Eventually I contented myself with making the notes I am using now. In 1920 it seemed easily possible to manufacture reality from my dreams. I could not possibly know that, while I imagined this best of all futures, Turks, Jews, the dregs of Oriental Africa, schemed its abortion. They dare not let Paradise flourish on Earth, because all they have to offer is a modest reward in the world to come. They divided us and now they rule. Compromise was to be the order of the day; the very name of our century. Those who refused to compromise were, one by one, broken and destroyed.
I had been less than a week at the Pera Palas and was returning up the Grande Rue one morning, pushing my way through touts and hucksters, European officials in top hats and frock-coats, soldiers and sailors and women of quality, and feeling more than a little exhausted, when I heard my name called. Peering across the street I saw Major Nye, in khaki, standing on the corner waving to me with his swagger-stick. Behind him, in a leopard-skin coat and matching hat, stood Mrs Cornelius. An omnibus moved between us, a Turkish boy with a long cane clearing the way ahead, and I almost ran into it, my weariness forgotten, as I rushed over to them, shook the major’s hand and kissed Mrs Cornelius on both cheeks. The major was smiling. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you, old boy.’ But Mrs Cornelius was in poor humour. Her usual genial manner was strained. She wore more cosmetics than normal. ‘Have you been ill?’ I asked her. ‘Well, I’m not me usual chipper self, I must admit, Ivan.’ She spoke in what she called her ‘posh’ voice, which she affected sometimes in the company of certain types of Briton. ‘How have yer bin?’
‘I’ve managed to hold back the anxiety,’ I said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’
She did not soften. Major Nye explained they were about to have a drink before lunch and with his stick indicated the doors of a little bar. ‘This suits you, old man?’ We strolled into the semi-darkness as happily I told her of my discovery that Kolya was still alive. I was longing to get to London. From there I would locate him easily and let him know my whereabouts. She grew a little gloomier at this last remark of mine, ‘It’s not gonna be that simple, Ivan, I’m afraid. A couple of days ago I found art I’m a rotten Russian subject. Officially, any’ow. On account o’ that bleedin’ - dashed - certificate. I’m your wife. ‘Cause that’s ‘ow we registered on the ship.’
‘But we were never really married. What does it mean?’
She fell silent and made an effort to smile at the major. He was ordering our drinks. Her voice lowered for my benefit, she glared. ‘I’m bloody well stuck ‘ere, that’s wot!’ Then she added in a peeved tone, ‘I’ve been fuckin’ lookin’ fer ya orl over! Wot the ‘ell ya bin up ter? I’m now dependent on you gettin’ a visa for both of us. Fat bloody chance, eh?’
Major Nye turned back to us. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski has explained your difficulties. It’s a vile position. I’m trying to contact the appropriate authorities and clear the matter up. But everyone’s so overworked.’
I told him I understood. I had after all been an Intelligence Officer in Odessa, with similar duties and identical problems. One did one’s best to retain one’s humanity, but there were so many needy cases.
‘Perhaps we could get you an exit visa if a high-ranking Russian officer vouched for you?’ he suggested. We sat in a row on the bar stools and looked out into the turbulent street.
‘My superiors are all dead,’ I explained. ‘Had it not been for Mrs Cornelius - Pyatnitski - I should have shared their fate. There’s Captain Wallace, an Australian Tank Commander I worked with last year. My C.O. was Major Perezharoff when I acted as a liaison officer between the Volunteers and the Allied Expeditionary Forces.’